


The Things They Wore

by ariadnes_string



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M, Uniforms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-16
Updated: 2012-08-16
Packaged: 2017-11-12 07:07:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadnes_string/pseuds/ariadnes_string
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The odor of this many Recon Marines—it’s a powerful thing."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Things They Wore

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: For the "uniforms/military kink" on my kink_bingo card. This is a slightly odd take on the prompt--there's some context for what inspired me [here](http://ariadnes-string.dreamwidth.org/126492.html#cutid1), if you're curious.  
> a/n: The fic has a mix of details from the book and the HBO series.  
> a/n: Titled with apologies to Tim O'Brien, whose writing I love.  
> a/n: Many thanks to thirdbird for a speedy and super helpful beta!  
> a/n: Thanks also to pun for hosting a rewatch this summer, which got me to finally see the show.

He went looking for Ray. He didn’t even try to pretend he was doing anything else. It spun him not to know the exact location of a team member, secure billet or not. He didn’t fight it. Experience told him that feeling would last a while.

When he found Ray, though, hidden among the piles of stuff at the edges of the old tank repair yard, he had to laugh.

“Shit. Thought they would’ve burned this crap by now.”

No answer, just a skinny arm rising out of the heap of discarded BDUs, waving one of those bottles of homemade gin.

Still not talking, then. “Maybe we’re upholding the ROE by not burning it,” Brad tried again. “The smoke from these things would probably raise a toxic death cloud from here to Kuwait City.”

“Either go away or come in.” Sullen, but at least engaging.

Mission accomplished, Brad thought. Time to go. But instead he found himself sinking into the heap of dirty uniforms alongside Ray.

“Holy fuck,” he hissed as the scents rose around him: old sweat and gun oil; gun lubricant and spilled MREs; tar and dip and dust, if dust can have a smell; old farts and dried piss and come. The only good thing to say about it was that it cut the regular stink of burn pits and latrines.

“Smells like home, don’t it, sergeant?” 

“Maybe your home, you whiskey-tango fuck. Some of us were brought up in places that didn’t violate every health code in the fifty states.”

Ray snorted and nudged the bottle at Brad again. “Here. Think of it as disinfectant.”

Brad swallowed, the liquor a welcome burn down his throat. The weird thing was, he knew what Ray was talking about. He’d been glad for a turn with the fire hose in that old warehouse, sure—sluicing away the grime had been almost orgasmic. But since then he’d been freaking when he caught the scent of soap coming off his skin, like aliens had taken over his body or something.

They lay there for a while, the clothes a bulwark between them and the future. Brad adjusted to the olfactory onslaught pretty quickly. It wasn’t any different than the fetid closeness he’d been living in for weeks, the packed Humvee absorbing and mingling everyone’s funk. Strange how you could get used to something so gross. Strange you could miss it. He fingered the sleeve of a t-shirt near his head. It was bleached almost white, the fabric so worn it felt like it might fray under his hand. Soft.

He took another pull of booze. Maybe Ray had the right idea. It was kind of peaceful here.

And then Ray, being Ray, had to ruin it.

“You know, I think I can identify the jizz of every man in this platoon, from scent alone. The combat jacks that’ve gone on in these pants? It’s like a museum of come.”

“Shut up, Person.”

“No, for real. It’s like I’m one of those guys who can tell you which side of the hill the grapes grew on just from a tiny sip of wine.”

“Sommeliers. They’re called sommeliers. Just don’t tell me you’ve been licking peoples’ pants,” Brad said, egging Ray on now, because it was nice to hear him being all Ray-like again.

“No, homes, I told you: it’s all in the schnozz.” Ray tapped his nose. “Smell that one? Semen, but kind of light, almost fizzy, hint of pineapple, maybe mango? Rudy.”

“Fruity to the core.”

Ray drew an exaggerated breath, then wrinkled his nose. “And that one? Like plants you give too much water to? Kind of swampy and dark?”

“Trombley?” Brad guessed. Ray nodded sagely. “You are so making this shit up, you little creep.” Brad sniffed himself, but all he got was a whiff of old puke—left over from everyone getting sick, maybe.

“Nuh-uh. I’m a genius for this. I can even do it for officers. The LT, for example--”

“Ray.”

Ray took the hint, and things were quiet for a bit. Then, to Brad’s dismay, he started squirming—tiny movements that were distressingly familiar.

“Jesus, Ray.”

“Sorry, Sergeant. Can’t help it. The odor of this many Recon Marines—it’s a powerful thing.” 

“I’m revising my earlier assessment, Corporal. You are a _perverted_ whiskey-tango fuck, and deserve to be drummed out of the Corps.” 

“You know I’m right, Brad. I’m gonna have this at my gay bar.” The squirming was getting rhythmic. “You’re gonna be able to pay to rub your face in the crotch of some Battle Dress Uniforms that have seen authentic combat—get right up close to that badass, hot dick, smell—get it all over you. That shit’s gonna sell like hotcakes.”

Brad was pretty sure that if he turned his head right now, he’d see Ray with his hand down his pants. He didn’t turn his head. “You’re disgusting.”

“Hey—don’t diss the jack.” Ray had shifted somehow so that his voice was right in Brad’s ear, hot and breathy. “Either get some of your own or leave a guy in peace.”

Brad couldn’t have said why in a million years, but Ray being like that did things to him. Or maybe it really was all those destroyed BDUs, the smell some kind of Pavlovian trigger. He turned on his side so he was facing Ray and grabbed his wrist.

“What if I want some of this?”

Ray’s eyes went wide, all the smartass knocked out of him, and the sight took Brad’s own dick from curious to full-on ready in no time flat. 

“I’d say take what you can get, Sergeant.”

So Brad did. He let go of Ray’s wrist, undid the waistband of his pants and plunged in. Ray’s cock, full already, twitched in his hand. Could this be the first time he’d touched it? That didn’t seem possible. They’d stood side by side often enough—a circle jerk that was more of a roll call for chubbies. Had he really never reached across? If he hadn’t, why did Ray’s dick feel so familiar in his hand? 

He tugged experimentally, and Ray wriggled in pleasure. Well, that wasn’t anything Brad didn’t know already: Ray might be a grown-up Devil Dog in most respects, but he was downright puppyish when it came to this. And what puppies needed—

Brad tightened his fingers around the base of Ray’s shaft, stopping him from fucking any deeper into Brad’s fist. Ray whimpered. 

“Ask for it nice, Corporal,” Brad hissed. He drove his tongue into the bitter whorl of Ray’s ear, just to feel Ray buck under his hand.

Ray whimpered again, and then, in a satisfying thread of need, he whispered, “Please, sir.” And then louder, a groan, “Please.”

That was it. Brad jacked him hard and rough, past any desire for control. Curious, he pushed deeper, giving Ray’s balls an ungentle squeeze as he worked three fingers between his cheeks, dug one into his hole. Ray cursed into Brad’s shoulder, grabbing his ass and pulling him in so tightly Brad’s own hard-on dug into Ray’s hip. Ray’s legs jerked against his, searching for purchase on the mound of laundry and finding none. Finally, Brad pinned him with a knee, and let himself grind into the hollow of Ray’s pelvis. 

“Fuck yeah,” Ray growled, “fucking get some.” 

Ray was right, Brad thought, as they rocked and rutted themselves deeper into the cocoon of fabric: the wrecked uniforms were some kind of crazy-ass museum, a memorial to everything they’d lived through, a reminder to catch what they could of life right now. But when Ray came, Brad thought he could smell something beyond the rancid musk around them, something like fresh bread and motor oil that was purely Ray. Following it took him over the edge too.

When he’d milked everything he could out of Ray’s climax and his own, Brad rolled away. The sharp smell of hooch was drowning out the rest of the miasma now: they must’ve spilled the bottle somehow.

“Damn, Person,” he said. “Should’ve known you’d know the most romantic spots in liberated Iraq.”

“Stick with me, Bradley. You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

They were quiet for a few moments, their breath slowly easing.

“Hey, Brad?” 

“Hmm?”

“When you think about it, what we did right here? It was kind of a gang bang—mixing up our junk with everyone else’s? Had to happen sometime, right?” Ray’s voice was slurred, sleepy, like it hardly ever was.

“Shut up, Ray. Get some rest.”

Ray muttered something indistinct, burrowing down into the old clothes.

Brad stretched, then grabbed something above his head to clean himself off with. His hand snagged in it weirdly, though, and when he brought it in front of his face to inspect, he found he’d stuck his finger right through a round, ragged hole in somebody’s sleeve. Shrapnel, maybe, or a stray AK round. There were a few other tears nearby, but no blood. 

He played with the edges of the rips for a moment, pulling at the sturdy fabric, waiting for his heart to stop pounding. Then he balled up the shirt and wiped himself down.


End file.
